The Little Things
by FH96
Summary: Holmes was utterly intrigued. His eyes were alight with curiosity as Watson carried on with his explanation. "And what was the boy's name? The cripple?"    "Tim. Tim Cratchit."


**A/N:** Well hey there guys! :D

In regards to this little thing, I've had an idea floating around in my head where Watson would attend to a pauper's son in one of my favorite Christmas stories. I am making this a multi-chapter affair, undecided as to whether I should throw some yaoi in for good measure (readers decide? :D) There are few references to SH2, not enough to be spoiler material though, don't worry! Please enjoy yourselves, and have a lovely holiday, from myself to you! Please take a minute to review :)

Disclaimer: I'm nothing but a pauper. I don't own Sherlock or John, and if I did, I certainly wouldn't be writing of them ;)

P.S. The inability to indent is really beginning to annoy me. Just wanted to put that out there for whoever's looking :P

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><p>Snow had begun to fall gently, and gathered in the panes of 221B Baker Street, London. Holmes stared from in the sitting room out of a window, inquisitive towards the tiny flakes that fell from a grey sky above. His cheek rested against the cold pane; slow, deliberate breaths fogged the glass while he peered out of a window. 'Twas nearly Christmas Eve, one sleep until the latter to be exact. He'd had no plans of going out, save for getting a gift for Watson and Mrs. Hudson, but his companion hadn't arrived home yet.<p>

"John, where are you? It's been nearly an hour since you said you'd be home," Sherlock whispered to himself, peering down on the bundles of heavy woolen coats of various neutral shades that littered the streets below. _He'll be here soon, don't fret_. A timid knock came from the sitting room door.

"Come in, Nanny," Sherlock muttered into his hand, "just set the tea over on the table next to the settee." He motioned carelessly over to an ornate side table, beside a rather extravagantly embroidered sofa, and resumed his watch over the streets below. Mrs. Hudson pondered for a moment after setting down a tray of coffee and a few, hot, gingerbread slices, watching the window fog from her friend's breath. Moments later, Holmes felt a gentle squeeze to his bicep, looking up to Mrs. Hudson and back to aimlessly scour the lanes beneath their flat for the doctor. He placed a hand on top of hers worriedly, revoking without eye contact.

"He'll come, Holmes. He'll come." And then the grip left his arm. The door was gently closed, and Sherlock was left to sink into his own thoughts once again. Lost, he was. That mind of his had a peculiar way of wandering to its' darker depths when given a chance to, and while waiting for John on the night before Christmas Eve was no exception. _What if he'd been mugged? Got pneumonia? Slipped and fell unconscious on his way back? Cab got lost to Baker Street?_ The possibilities were endless on a cold, winter night in Victorian London. But, when rhyme came to reason, Sherlock found himself deducing, to reassure himself that his Boswell had certainly not gotten his dapper self into trouble.

Holmes turned from his place by the window, to look in on the sitting room, which seemed to have begun to glow without his attendance. The fireplace crackled warmly, under a brick-laden hearth, atop which sat an elongated mirror; musty and unkempt. Watson normally kept his gambling winnings (of which were few and far between as of late, which Holmes had to add to his mental notes) concealed within the lip of the hearth. Without hesitation, Sherlock sprung from his curious study, gently sliding his hand across the wooden lip.

"Ah. Wonderful," He stated with a smug glance, peeling a receipt from above. Just as he was to begin to read the contents of the onion-skin paper, Watson promptly burst through the door to the sitting room, snow atop the shoulders of his jacket and his well-worn bowler cap.

"Holmes! What on earth are you doing?" Watson paraded into the ornate room, wet shoes and all, snatching the paper from Holmes' firm grasp.

"Simply investigating, Watson. Though, you never gave me a chance to deduce for myself why you're home so late. It's nearly eleven, on the dot! I had so many thoughts running through my head while I sat and waited nearly an hour for you, Watson! My face was glued to that window," Holmes pointed to the window he'd sat near for hours on end, waiting, "for so long, I'd nearly contracted frostbite on my nose. I'd thought you'd been mugged; shot, beaten; even slipped and fallen unconscious in a great rush to return to our flat! You had me –"

John stood in front of Sherlock, a simple, devious grin on his face, while he rattled on about how utterly insane he'd gone, waiting for the good doctor's return. His grin faltered only slightly when Holmes took notice of the smug appearance.

"What?" Watson asked, suddenly defensive.

"I should think I sound like the mother hen, now." He smiled, a warm chuckle resounding in his throat. Watson could do nothing more than laugh along with his companion, for he was no longer the mother hen. Holmes' rants sounded more like Watson after one of their famous escapade, nearly risking one, or both of their lives in the process. "What in bloody hell did we do, Holmes?" or, "We're verging on manic, old boy," were often uttered following a case, dueled with a fist scuffle (in which the two of them ended up on the floor, _naturally_) or a good swig of whiskey. _Or in Holmes's case, a generous glass of embalming fluid, or eye surgery solution, _Watson smiled knowingly to himself as those memories relapsed in his subconscious.

"You're utterly ludicrous, Holmes, you know that?" Watson smiled amidst the resounding chuckles that filled the sitting room.

"Only as ludicrous as yourself, Watson. You take time out of your practice to come and spend time with me! Of all people, Watson; me!" Holmes leaned forward in his seat, furthering his giggling fits. Suddenly, he ceased, a serious face adorning the great inspector's features.

"In all seriousness Watson, where in God's name were you, on a night such as this?"

Watson sat back in his chair, drumming the end of his cane. How to explain this? John crumpled into himself momentarily, devising a well-thought story that could travel the two of them well into the night. Returning to reality after only a few moments, Watson leaned forward in his chair, ushering Sherlock to lean in as well, earning them both hushed tones.

"Do crack on then, Watson," Holmes whispered, leaning his elbows on his knees to hear over the roaring fire. John smiled; as he readied himself, his story was told only to Holmes' deliciously chocolate eyes. Watson loved to watch his stories play out in Holmes' mind while he carried on.

"To begin, I had planned to tap in early for tonight, to get some last minute window shopping in, for your Christmas gift," Watson began, silencing a 'you really don't need to get me anything' from Sherlock, "but before I could be off from my practice, a haggard man arrived on my stoop. He was shivering terribly, Holmes! He had tattered rags for clothing, and a small child, limp in his arms. 'Please, help me.' He begged, on his knees in the snow before me. Overcome with tears, I couldn't bring myself to leave the pauper and his boy in the snow, so I tended to him. Oh, bloody hell, the boy had contracted a violent case of pneumonia, and I discovered him to be crippled in his right leg. The poor thing had nothing but a meager cane to support his frail weight; might I add that the boy was nothing short of skin and bones, as well as the father. I offered them to stay in the practice overnight, so as to evade the storm. The father became so emotional, he clung to my body in thanks. He kept repeating, 'God bless you, sir. Thank you so much', his eyes were a-kindled with such kindness as I had never seen before! It brought me such genuine joy to help this unfortunate soul through a night, to say the least."

Holmes was utterly intrigued. His eyes were alight with curiosity as Watson carried on with his explanation. "And what was the boy's name? The cripple?"

"Tim. Tim Cratchit."


End file.
